The Gold in the Dirt
by Riverine
Summary: "They left the earls' wealth in the earth's keeping, the gold in the dirt. It dwells there yet, of no more use to men than in ages before." Scenes from Beowulf that inspired scenes from both Portal and Portal 2.
1. With his own life

Author's Note: I don't own Portal or Beowulf.

* * *

><p><em>More than one portion of wealth<em>

_shall melt with the hero, for there's a hoard of treasure_

_and gold uncounted; a grim purchase,_

_for in the end it was with his own life_

_that he bought these rings: which the burning shall devour,_

_the fire enfold._

* * *

><p>He sat in his office with the lights off, long after everyone had gone home. Plotting a course of action for his last days. He was a doer, damn it, and he was not going to sit around and mope.<p>

There were accounts to close, affairs to set in order, but he wasn't going to deal with that garbage. The bean counters could sort that out after he was pushing up daisies. He was just going to keep working as he had his entire life, as though there was nothing wrong, and the doctors be damned.

One of the docs had told him that he was in denial because he was afraid. He had laughed in his face, but the words came back to him now, in the quiet darkness.

He wasn't afraid. He wasn't.

At least, not for himself.

What would happen to this facility, this lifetime of sweat and blood, when he was gone?


	2. The evil days were destined her

Author's Note: I own nothing.

* * *

><p><em>A woman of the Geats in grief sang out<em>

_the lament for his death. Loudly she sang,_

_her hair bound up, the burden of her fear_

_that evil days were destined her_

_- troops cut down, terror of armies,_

_bondage, humiliation. Heaven swallowed the smoke._

* * *

><p>She had waited until she was alone in his office before she started to cry. He was gone, and the science, the one thing he had loved more than her, would die with him.<p>

She couldn't do it. It wasn't modesty that made her say it, it was absolute aversion to the very idea of it.

They would be here soon, to drag her humanity from her very bones and pour it into a cold and alien machine. She should leave. Now.

She had her letter of resignation in her pocketbook. She could leave it here on the desk, a warning. Do not follow a dead man.

She wished so desperately that she could take her own advice.

When morning came, they came into the office and took her away.

Hours later, they threw her body into the incinerator, so that there would be no trace of the thing they had done.

The letter of resignation was in her pocket.


	3. Now death held him fast

Author's Note: Nothing is mine.

* * *

><p><em>He had once been master of the midnight air,<em>

_held sweet sway there, and swooped down again_

_to seek his den; now death held him fast,_

_he had made his last use of lairs in the earth._

* * *

><p>When she fell to the pavement with a jarring <em>smack<em> that sent her blood skipping across the concrete to the sorely craved grass, she knew that she was not going to go skipping with it. She couldn't move her arms or legs.

The effort to turn her head should have hurt, but it didn't. Nothing hurt, and that was what scared her the most.

Her eyes fell on the yellow optic in its cracked faceplate, inches from her face. In its feeble blinking, she was sure she caught a glimpse of fear.

Slowly, the optic drew away with the sound of plastic dragging against pavement until it was lost amongst the broken and smoking debris.


	4. Dwells in his death rest

Author's Note: Obviously none of this is mine, or I'd be getting paid for it.

* * *

><p><em>The Lord of the Geats lies now on his slaughter-bed,<em>

_the leader of the Weathers, our loving provider,_

_dwells in his death-rest through the dragon's power._

_Stretched out beside him, stricken with the knife,_

_lies his deadly adversary._

* * *

><p>He didn't want to leave her here, with only the core to look after her. He was sentencing her to death by doing so; he was sure of it.<p>

His blood-slick fingers shook as he fumbled with the wires. Buying her time, but nothing else. Not hope, not life, not even certainty of death. She could be there forever, her soul trapped in her sleeping body.

It wasn't right, not after all she had done. In his mind, she was a selfless benefactor fighting to free them. They had never met, but her footfalls throughout the facility had renewed him as surely as water quenched his thirst and food quelled his hunger.

Darkness was creeping in around the edges of his vision; he didn't have much time. He twisted the last wires, sealing the circuit and her fate.

He watched the monitors as his slipped deeper and deeper into the beckoning darkness.

In one, a beauty slept an unnatural sleep.

In another, a beast lay broken, debris scattered along the length of a thick braid of wiring.


	5. One left alive

Author's Note: I wish this was all mine, but it's not.

* * *

><p><em>The whole race<em>

_death-rapt, and of the ring of earls_

_one left alive; living on in that place_

_heavy with friend-loss, the hoard-guard_

_waited the same weird. His wit acknowledged_

_that the treasures gathered and guarded over the years_

_were his for the briefest while._

* * *

><p>Some part of him acknowledged that he had made a mistake. That part was the sane part, and it seldom spoke these days. When it did, however, even the cube had to agree that he could have left. He could be outside right now, breathing fresh air instead of recycling the same oxygen over and over again.<p>

It was jealousy that ultimately kept him here. He used to feel so useless, so angry. They all laughed at him when he tried to warn them, and now they were all dead, and all this - this _glorious_ facility - was his. He might not have been in control of it, but ownership was a human construction. _She _was a machine, and _she _could not own anything.

He was right about the danger, and it was all his.

The one person he wanted to share it with would not wake until long after he was dead.


	6. The treasure of a race rusting derelict

Author's Note: Neither Beowulf nor Portal is mine.

* * *

><p><em>There were heaps of hoard-things in this hall underground<em>

_which once in gone days gleamed and rang;_

_the treasure of a race rusting derelict._

* * *

><p>There was a cure for cancer somewhere in here, she was sure. She imagined a pile of broken and radioactive things, heaped up to the ceiling in a dark and dustless room, and at the bottom of it there would be a device, a serum, <em>something<em> that would do something great for humanity.

The only problem was that there were no humans left.


	7. The twisted tangle thing

Author's Note: Beowulf = not mine. Portal = not mine.

* * *

><p><em>The temper of the twisted tangle-thing was fired<em>

_to close now in battle._

* * *

><p>She could still remember the smell of her hair as a rocket singed it and the shock that came with the realization that She was just a computer. A tangle of wires and plastic and glass, with a cold and unfeeling metal heart. No, not unfeeling. <em>Angry<em>.

And now she saw that He was no different. Her saving grace, her light in the dark bowels of the facility, her bumbling but constant friend… He was nothing but a snarl of wiring that housed a terrible and raging need.

The button exploded, throwing her across the room. She smelled her hair burning; everything had come full circle, and somehow she hadn't seen it coming.

She almost laughed; maybe she was brain-damaged.


	8. Struck through the serpent's body

Author's Note: I'm just borrowing it; I own nothing.

* * *

><p><em>The king once more<em>

_took command of his wits, caught up a stabbing-knife_

_of the keenest battle-sharpness, that he carried in his harness:_

_and the Geat's Helm struck through the serpent's body._

* * *

><p>She supposed she should have been more grateful that she had gotten to see the moon. <em>Outside<em>. A day ago (or was it a week?), she would have died for a single breath of fresh, unfiltered air. Now she stared up through the hole in the ceiling with blood pooling around her and bitterness running cold in her veins as the moonlight bathed her in white, mocking her.

She was so _fucking_ close that it would have been funny if it weren't so horribly sad. She wanted to cry, to rage, to hurt the metal monster that screamed down at her to _take one last look at your precious human moon_.

The word _moon_ triggered something in her damaged brain, flipped on a switch and flooded her with clarity.

With the last of her strength, she lifted the portal gun toward that beautiful, hateful light, and squeezed the trigger.


	9. The gold in the dirt

Author's Note: Beowulf and Portal do not belong to me.

* * *

><p><em>They left the earls' wealth in the earth's keeping<em>

_the gold in the dirt. It dwells there yet,_

_of no more use to men than in ages before._

* * *

><p>After weeks of walking, she had found a small village. The people had rushed forth and touched her ponytail, kissed the cube and the ground where her feet touched. They told her that she was a goddess, begged her to impart the wisdom she had taken from that place of legends and nightmares in the ground.<p>

She looked over her shoulder as they clung to her jumpsuit, their chests heaving with terror and reverence. What could she tell them, even if she did have a voice?

She pointed in the direction she had come from and shook her head. She wished more than anything that there was more to tell.

But there was nothing there for them. There never had been, and there never would be.


End file.
